


Hey, hey, baby, when you walk that way, watch your honey drip, I can't keep away

by dancinbutterfly



Series: When Moving Through Kashmir [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Anonymous Sex, Banter, Bathroom Sex, Dirty Talk, Flirting, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Still a Witcher, Kissing, M/M, Modern AU, Modern Era, Musician Jaskier | Dandelion, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Spit As Lube, Stream of Consciousness, Witcher Contracts, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22765390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/pseuds/dancinbutterfly
Summary: His target says he's there to drink alone but Jaskier isn't having that, not when he is the only one in the place who didn't shout him down and laugh as his band fell apart.“Come on," Jaskier wheedles because he is going to fix this and salvage something of this night, by the fucking gods. "You must have some review for me. Three words or less.""Go fuck yourself."Well. All right. That’s not even a bad review actually. Jaskier has done more with less; granted, on better days, but he’s so insanely good-looking he is going to make the effort. So he plants both hands on the table, bats his eyelashes like he’s getting paid for it and purrs, “Fuck me yourself, you coward.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: When Moving Through Kashmir [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636798
Comments: 58
Kudos: 1024
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	Hey, hey, baby, when you walk that way, watch your honey drip, I can't keep away

**Author's Note:**

> This started as an idea I saw on tumblr and then it ran away with me. Thanks to suzukiblu for the support and encoruagement and telling me how to fix it!
> 
> The title is from Black Dog by Led Zepplin.

The bar is some terrible place with sticky floors and awful acoustics but is still serving patrons because it’s on the national register of historic shitty pubs. And you’d think that in the historic however many hundred years this place has been standing in this spot, at least one of the proprietors could have gotten a mage in here to magic the sound better at least once, right? But no, and they don’t even bother to pay for a decent speaker system, what the fuck.

And the man in the back of the room with his white hair pulled back isn’t even someone Jaskier would normally invest his energy in- he prefers to be approached rather than do the approaching, thank you - but tonight’s not a normal night. His life as he knows it has ended with the crowd booing them off the stage and Valdo was such a dick about the whole thing, which shouldn't be surprising since Valdo was a dick pretty much all the time. But he just walked out on the fucking band and Polly went with him which left the band with nothing but Jaskier and his guitar. And he could deal with that, he could, he was self-sufficient and industrious and bass-players are a dime a dozen, but that plagerising, tone-deaf vermin Valdo Marx and that turncoat he once called a friend took the fucking van. They took the van! 

So he's stranded here, alone, in some nameless pub at the edge of the world, trying to be entertaining enough for a few drinks and maybe a ticket back to Redania without getting cursed. Please, don’t let anyone dislike the set enough to curse him. That is the last thing he needs, aside from his parents finding out he dropped out of university, shit. 

Jaskier has blown a solid half an hour trying to get anything from the promised gig out of the bar’s cheap as fuck manager when he sees him, a fucking brick shit house of a man trying so hard not to be noticed in the shadows of a back booth it’s actually really fucking conspicuous. And he is so not interested in the proceedings, he's really not, Jaskier can tell that. He’s not stupid and he knows how to read a room but goddamnit he has a face that's a heartbreak waiting to happen and Jaskier’s never had any impulse control, has he? No, of course he hasn’t. Fuck it. So he grabs the nearest unattended pint, chugs it and makes his way to Mr. Pale Buff and Handsome in the back of the bar. 

And he is handsome. He’s devastating. He is a total ruination of a man in black leathers from his thick black jacket down to his fingerless gloves and Jaskier says something absolutely asinine to him, something mocking before he can stop himself. He hears himself say, "I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,” like an idiot, like that’s any way to treat someone you want to bang like a bass drum, and just has to live with it.

His target says he's there to drink alone but Jaskier isn't having that, not when he is the only one in the place who didn't shout him down and laugh as his band fell apart. 

“Come on," Jaskier wheedles because he is going to fix this and salvage something of this night, by the fucking gods. "You must have some review for me. Three words or less."

"Go fuck yourself."

Well. All right. That’s not even a bad review actually. Jaskier has done more with less; granted, on better days, but he’s so insanely good-looking he is going to make the effort. 

So he plants both hands on the table, bats his eyelashes like he’s getting paid for it and purrs, “Fuck me yourself, you coward.”

That has the pupils of Mr. Leather Man Dol Blathanna 1240’s eyes going so large they swallow the unusually bright gold of his irises. Its effect is unnatural, like something haunted and really fucking hot on that pale face. It’s also enough of a yes for Jaskier to take a flying leap on. 

He stands and says "Gents. Now," which he has never actually done before and isn't sure will work this time but really fuck this day. And hopefully fuck this man. Please please let him fuck this man and his strange magic eyes. 

Jaskier gets about a minute to stress out alone with his guitar case in front of the urinals before the door slams open and there he is, his white-haired wonder. 

“You are a fool," he says and shakes his head. His jaw cuts through the air like a razor and Jaskier wants to lick it.

“A fool who wants to ride your cock."

And that gets him a low growl and hands on his hips lifting him onto the sink which is rather good, fantastic actually, and kissed. He hasn’t been kissed in ages and he wasn’t expecting it, was prepared for something quick and dirty and distant but this is better. He can bury his hands in thick hair and grab firm shoulders and whine into kisses. This is bloody brilliant actually. 

There’s no fumbling with zippers and buttons. They’re both too focused on what they’re doing for that. It’s a surgical fucking strike. Jaskier wants to touch the skin under all that black leather and fabric. Getting any of it off him is unmanageable because he wears two very, very scary-looking swords on his back. He can’t believe he didn’t notice them earlier but he was distracted by that face.

So Jaskier settles for yanking the neck of his shirt over his snowy head and leaves it draped over the back of his neck, exposing a broad sculpted chest and taut stomach marked by scars and adorned with a silver medallion detailing a snarling wolf that hangs over his sternum which just seals it, doesn’t it. 

Gods but he is pretty. Jaskier wishes he could have found a bed so he could lick all of…that. He leans to trail his tongue down his exposed collarbone, through soft chest hair and around a perked nipple and calls it enough. 

A huge hand fists in his hair. Fuck. That’s nice. So is the roughness in that deep voice as it grits out, “I don’t have anything.”

Jaskier shakes his head against his chest because he doesn’t want to pull away. It’s just so nice here in the valley of plentiful man-tits. He wants to build a cottage. With his mouth. “You don’t need anything.” 

But then those lovely mounds jerk away from his lips and that pretty mouth is frowning. Jaskier sighs in frustration and tugs him back and bites his lower lip because it’s stuck out there, isn’t it. It’s right there and it’s so juicy. He has to taste it. It’s like wine because like wine, tasting it makes him stupid and chatty which is the only reason he can possibly come up with that he says, “I know who you are. You’re the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia.” He is drunk on stubble and musk from nuzzling that ridiculously sharp jaw. That’s why when Geralt flinches he beams and nips his cleft chin and declares, “Called it.”

Every muscle in Geralt seems to go tense but Jaskier runs his hand up his chest, down, then around to cup his deliciously firm arse. “Relax. I won’t tell unless you want me to. Besides-” He lifts his hips to push into Geralt’s undeterred hard-on. “We’re busy, aren’t we?” 

Geralt seems to consider that. Jaskier can understand that. Really. 

Yeah, ok, Dol Blanthanna isn’t exactly Redania where everyone and their cousin knows about Blaviken even all these years later but news travels internationally when it comes to those touched by magic and no one really knows what happened there, do they? No they don’t. There was just a crazy bloodbath left behind in a pissed off town so far north it was almost Kaedwen but basically nothing else anyone could be certain about. 

Sometimes witchers gave interviews to local papers and news stations; Geralt was not one to talk to the press so all there was in Blaviken to officially report was a street fight, the word of a sorcerer and some dead criminals that no one was looking to investigate too deeply. Be wary of witchers is as old a standby as never trust a sorcerer after all. No warrant was ever issued, no manhunt ever staged, only a legend left behind. 

Jaskier always thought it was a rather good story. 

But then, Jaskier was always a slut for a good tragedy. New witchers hadn’t been made since the age of machines began but the story went that they had been boys abandoned and unwanted by their parents, mutated into super warriors against their will. And what was more tragic than child soldiers doomed to a life of exile? The upside of such a fate was the near-immortality and imperviousness to disease, which may not be a good deal but is at least cheaper than hospital visits in the long run. 

Also. No need to grab a rubber. He does have to get his pants off far enough to let Geralt at his arse, though, which is going to be tricky in this position. He may need to get off the sink for that. 

But first, he has to address his terrible faux pas so they can get back to fucking. 

“Do I really need to convince you to put your cock in me? I thought we already agreed you would.”

Geralt makes a deep sexy grunting noise and then says, “Hungry slut.” Like that's a normal thing for a person to say. Fuck. 

However, Jaskier can work with this. He will work with this. He is thrilled to work with this. “So hungry.” Jaskier agrees, beaming, and winds his arms around his neck. Geralt steps closer into the embrace so they’re pressed flush groin to groin and oh, yes, that clicks like a puzzle piece. Jaskier wiggles a bit for friction and pleasure shivers from his trapped cock through his thighs and into his belly. “And thirsty. Feed me? Fill me up?” 

It sounds silly saying it, but it gets the desired result because Geralt drops his forehead so their brows touch. “This is a mistake.”

“Probably,” Jaskier agrees cheerfully. He turns his face, just so, to make their noses rub together. “Help me out of my trousers?”

Which Geralt does by lifting him the fuck off the sink, physically, with his insanely supernaturally strong arms by half a foot so Jaskier can kick out of his trousers and pants and if that isn’t brain-meltingly hot nothing is. His cock is dripping at that and he shoves his fingers in his mouth and starts sucking them, drooling like an untrained puppy because this man is delicious and Jaskier needs him to get his dick inside him, right now. He’s had a terrible day and only witcher cock can fix it. 

He pushes his middle finger into himself and okay, yeah, it’s awkward and exposed and weird and it stings a little but it’s getting the job done and fucking wow it's also kind of hot because Geralt’s eyes go huge and dark again as he watches. 

Jaskier makes quick work of working his second finger in because hello, those eyes, that face, those hands, he wants, he wants so bad. Shit.

“Touch me, fuck.”

He gets what he wants in the form of a huge calloused fist wrapped around his cock, moving fast and wet because he is absolutely gushing pre over this whole thing. He’s spilling all over Geralt’s fingers and frantically writhing on his own until his hand is pulled free.

His hole clenches around nothing, empty, and he tries not to whine pathetically and absolutely fails. He’s going to remedy that tragedy when Geralt pins his hand to the mirror above his head which is both fantastic and awful simultaneously.

“What?” He doesn’t even bother not to sound pathetic now. He’s pinned between a fist on his cock and a hard place. He’s dying. “ _No._ ”

“Yes.”

“Please.” The witcher releases Jaskier’s cock to stroke his own, slicking it with the clear fluid he’s collected on his palm. He spits in his hand before returning to stroke him again, soothing him as the bigger man rubs his wet bare cock along the cleft of his arse. It’s a terrible, wonderful, blessed tease. “Oh, oh, please.”

“Shh.”

“Please. Please. Please, don’t-“ This is torture, hell, the best thing he’s ever felt. “I need you to fuck me, please.”

Geralt doesn’t answer with words. Not surprising. He’s not a big talker. His response to Jaskier’s pleading is to finally, finally, _finally_ push in and oh, yes, gods, that is more than sufficient. That has Jaskier screaming. 

There’s nothing but spit and precome to slick the way so the burn is almost consuming. Geralt's cock is huge, long and thick, stretching his rim sharply with every snap of his hips. It hurts so good and even as tears gather on his lashes he’s begging for more.

“Fuck me. Gods, fuck me, fuck me, please.”

In return he gets a grunt and then his hand is dropped so that Geralt can grip his hips, tilt them, and fuck him deeper and harder. The shift in angle is a gift from the godsdamn divine, lighting him up so that he feels like a glow is pouring out his eyes and mouth with every frantic gasp. It’s so much he feels like that fat cockhead is pushing up against his lungs and he can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe and maybe it’s the lack of air, maybe it’s the soul-shattering pleasure, but fuck, Jaskier is going to compose something epic about this, the kind of track that plays on radios for years, the kind other people get off to. 

It is, in point of fact, an inspirational fuck. 

“Tell me.”

Jaskier blinks up at the beast of a man fucking him. The tie holding his hair back from his face is starting to come loose and strands of white are sticking to his sweaty forehead. Jaskier doesn’t know what he wants to hear and he’s barely lucid as the pleasure of Geralt’s fat cock hammering into his sloppy hole wears away at him. 

“You’re stunning.”

The twisted frown Geralt gives him at that is frankly unfair. But hey, constructive feedback is how great artists grow so he tries again, with a bit more flair but with no less sincerity. 

“You are. You’re amazing and you feel so good inside me. Best I’ve ever had which is saying a lot. So much. More? Want more. You break me open on that gorgeous dick. Make me a slut for you. Make me fucking starving for you.”

Geralt’s sweat-slick brow drops to his chest and he growls which, yeah, fucking hot. Better than a standing ovation When he lifts his head his eyes glow like, like, like some kind of metaphor Jaskier will figure out when he isn’t being fucked stupid. 

And then the bastard says, “No.”

“Excuse me,” because what the fuck? That was a very good compliment given the situation. Some of his best actually. “Are you actually criticizing my dirty talk with your prick in me? Is that what’s happening here?”

“No, idiot. Tell me your fucking name.”

Oh. Right. He never said, did he? Well that was silly of him. Not his fault, is it, since he’s had a very trying evening and was subsequently dick-matized. And it’s easily solved. “Jaskier.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeats in his sex dragged over ten miles of bad road voice and oh right they were fucking and Geralt says his name like aural porn that Jaskier wants to sample for posterity and private use, holy shit. He grabs the back of Geralt’s neck and yanks him in for a kiss because he has to taste his name on that pretty pretty mouth. 

The kiss is the whistle at the start of a race. Geralt is off, fucking him hard, his hands clutching his hips so hard it hurts but hey he can get on board for some spice with his sugar especially now that his hole has gone loose and relaxed under the assault and every thrust in and drag out is nothing but electric bliss. 

He really should return the favor. That’s just good manners, and Jaskier does try to clench down around the mammoth stretching him open into new and heretofore undiscovered shapes but it’s a weak effort at best. His inner muscles flutter uselessly and he groans into Geralt’s mouth in despair at his failure. 

“ _Jaskier_.”

His name sounds so good muffled by his own lips that he can’t help but cry out. He’s just not that strong. His head falls back and shit it hurts when it makes contact with the mirror but not enough to stop him from begging for more, for a touch, for something. 

“Touch yourself.”

Jaskier tightens his hold on his strong shoulders and bends one elbow so he can grab a fistful of that improbable hair. “Touch me yourself, you fucking coward.”

And he does. His huge hot fist is back and that’s it, Jaskier is done. He comes messy and hot all over Geralt’s hand and bare stomach, his hole spasming and tightening as his orgasm shakes him and his head hits the mirror again so hard he’s suddenly a little dizzy but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, it’s so good, and then an instant later his insides are filled with hot wet pulses as Geralt finds his own release, groaning into first the fabric covering Jaskier’s shoulder and then his kiss as Jaskier makes a bird’s nest in his hair as they shake apart together. 

Forget inspirational. This fuck is godsdamn transcendental. 

They stay pressed together until the storm has passed then Geralt pulls out leaving Jaskier empty and aching and dripping and gross. He sits bare-arsed and come-dumb on the sink for far too long before sliding down to look for something to clean up with, but Geralt is already shoving a wet paper town into his hand with a grunt. 

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Hm.”

He makes quick work of the mess Geralt left as he watches Geralt clean his own come off his stomach. It’s a good view and it makes him a bit sad to see that lovely tableau erased and covered with clothes once again. Can’t be helped, what with public decency laws and all, but a tragedy is still a tragedy. 

“So where’re you off to now?”

Geralt shrugs.

“Because I don’t have any plans and you know I could be your barker, change hearts and minds about the whole-“

“Witcher!” The door opens and a frantic, frazzled man steps in..

“Yes, that. Sorry, were you standing out there the whole time?” The man doesn’t answer but his expression, like he’s smelling dog shit and can’t escape it, is more than answer enough to. “Oh, well, wonderful. Can’t a man fuck in a public restroom in peace anymore?”

“I’ve got a job for you,” the sniffer declares. “Please. There’s this...thing... a devil, it’s been stealing food and valuables from our homes. I can pay in advance.” He pulls out his wallet as if to make a point. 

Geralt’s barely got his dick back in his pants and he looks wildly unimpressed. It’s a good look on him. 

The sniffer's hand shakes as he holds out a billfold. “A hundred for the job.”

“One-fifty.”

Jaskier is intrigued. “Geralt, do you do all your negotiations in men’s toilets?”

“Here. You don’t take prisoners right?” The sniffer holds out a few more bills. Jaskier can’t help but notice the way his thin hands shake as Geralt takes it from him. “That’s what they say.”

“They say a lot of things.” 

The man lingers and Geralt’s eyes narrow. 

“But I need to-“

“I’d hold it if I were you, mate,” Jaskier offers and the sniffer darts out the door. 

It leaves them alone which is far more awkward than it has any right to be considering that Jaskier had this man inside him about five minutes ago. Amazing really how little it took to change the mood of a room. How fortunate that he was a man skilled at changing room moods. 

“So, a quest, huh? I could help.” He holds up his hands and gives his best spirit fingers. “You might need a hand and I’ve got two. One for each of, uh, the devil's horns?”

Geralt glares and after adjusting his swords just so, turns and follows the sniffer out. Jaskier barely has time to grab his guitar case and take off after him but he does catch up to the witcher in the parking lot as he settles on an absolutely beautiful muscle car that is probably fifty years older than every other car on the tarmac. 

“Wow. She is lovely. Does she have a name?”

“Go away.”

“You didn’t call your car Go Away. That’s a bit too avant garde for a witcher like you. Come on.” He drapes himself over the smooth maroon paint of the hood, chest bent low, arse tilted up. “I can help. I could be your barker, spreading tales of Geralt of Rivia.” Geralt opens the driver’s door and he panics. “The Butcher of Blaviken!”

Geralt freezes and then turns his golden stare on him and how flame-colored eyes can be so cold Jaskier will never know. “Come here.”

“Yeah?” Jaskier asks as he goes like an idiot and gets a slap upside the head that hurts very much but which he knows he deserves. He falls into Geralt’s lap wheezing. “Alright. Okay. But come on. You’re not going to make me walk to the next town like this?”

“Like what?”

Jaskier pushes up, one hand on the leather bench seat and one on the iron of Geralt’s thigh to properly glare at him. He has an excellent glare. He's been practicing his whole life and he learned it from the most fearsome of all trainers: his mother. He levels it on Geralt now without a shred of mercy. “You must know your dick is monstrous. I’ll be sitting funny for a week and limping for days from the bludgeoning.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Alright. You pull down those leathers and I’ll fuck you with a police baton using only spit and see how far you can hike afterwards, shall we?” Jaskier decides he will not get hard at that image, he is the master of his body and he is not, resolutely is not, going to get turned on at that idea, especially not so soon after getting railed. He is stronger than that. He will save it for later and jerk off to it like an adult. 

There’s a terribly heavy silence where Jaskier doesn’t even dare breathe. It finally ends with a mechanical click when Geralt unlocks the door. Jaskier somehow, through magic or maybe otherworldly reservoirs of self-restraint never before accessed, does not whoop or cheer or shout. He calmly collects himself and walks in a totally normal way around the car, stows his guitar in the backseat, and slides in the passenger seat. 

“If you eat in Roach, I will kill you.”

“I would never,” Jaskier gasps, petting the dash in front of him. “Roach is clearly a lady and deserves to be treated as such.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier smiles and snuggles down into the seat as Roach roars to life and tears out of the tiny parking lot and onto the dark and endless road. Fuck Posada and fuck Valdo and fuck Polly and fuck the band and fuck the van. This, he’s somehow sure, is going to be a better adventure than any and all of that combined.

**Author's Note:**

> I left the ending open on purpose in case this story decides to speak to me like I hope it will. The series title I created out of optimism is a lyric from Kashmir from Led Zepplin and any other stories in this verse are going to be really heavily inspired by Zep. I can already feel it. They have strong bardic vibes. <3
> 
> Until then, see you around sweet sailors. Please stop and drop a comment. I dont do total AUs often so I'm not sure how this goes but if you enjoyed it please let me know.


End file.
